by Alinta Thornton

About writing, malignant glioblastomas and other stuff.

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May 2004

	Contact me: athornto at zip.com.au

Monday 3 May 2004

Writing

Thorbies writing group happened yesterday, and for the first time we had 10 of the 11 members present, and 9 stories to critique. That's a lot of people around my dining table.

Sadly Cat Sparks and Rob Hood are leaving the group to concentrate on writing time, and less travelling up and down to Woollongong. It's the end of an era, since Cat has been the centre of the group since before I joined in 1998.

When I first joined we were all mostly wannabes with barely any publishing credits to our names, and now we are far more professional, published writers for the most part. Even those who haven't yet been published are serious about what they do and about getting better - it's great that the group has evolved along with my increasing commitment.

If today I found a group that was like Thorbies was when I first joined it, I wouldn't be interested. Nothing snobby, just it wouldn't meet my needs.

I wrote a new story last week called The Healing Soup of Chu-Chou Village, a 2000-word fairy tale, and I wrote it in just two days.

I'm quite happy with it, and the comments I got back chiefly concerned the ending which I know how to improve. I also have a logic problem concerning how many cows you'd have in a small village, but that's easily fixed too.

Novel waiting in line

In the back of my mind I know that I must very very soon get back to Apulder Sweet. It just needs so much work I am waiting for a spurt of energy. I tried working on it in Feb/March but nothing happened. Suspect it was too soon.

At least my writing is flowing easily again, so perhaps in a few weeks I'll suddenly want to get going on it again.

Alintas

I got a lovely email yesterday from Alinta Hamilton, who found this blog and got all excited to find another writing Alinta. Not only that but she writes fantasy and does mediaval reenactments. She's One of Us, how cool is that.

Must make sure to meet her when I'm next in Canberra.

Tuesday 4 May 2004

Hollingworth sees the light at last

To my great amazement, former Governor-General Dr Hollingworth has finally figured out that sexual abuse victims suffer. It's totally incredible to me that someone whose previous job as a priest was all about compassion and understanding managed only to apply these virtues to the perpetrators.

Apparently the reason for this breakthrough was Barbara Biggs, a sexual abuse survivor. She sent him a copy of her book with a note challenging him to see things from her perspective, and then met with him a few times.

He now understands the emotional fallout of such things. Geez. All he had to do was pay attention.

He said, ""Despite my work with the Brotherhood of St Laurence over 25 years, I had not been much exposed to the matter and was not aware of its impact as much as I should have been," he said. "I did not understand the 'emotional mechanics' of child sexual abuse and the long-term destructive effect on a victim's later life.

"...However difficult the past few years have been for me, one positive thing has emerged: media attention focused on child sexual abuse has brought this previously hidden issue to the full public attention. We have all been forced to look at this difficult and confronting issue."

Is he really saying that before this arose in relation to the Brotherhood of Laurence, society wasn't looking at sexual abuse? Seems to me it's been around for over 10 years in the media. It's hard to believe he didn't see it or take in the issues.

Good on him for finally working it out, but seriously, it's disappointing that someone in his job would have not talked to victims, done the research, or at least when the whole scandal broke, work out why everyone was so upset with his position, implying that the victims wanted it, etc.

Photographing dumbness

And while we're on the subject, how about those American soldiers, how dumb are they? I mean, if you're going to abuse your interrogatees, why would you take photos? That smacks of a complete disregard for their humanity. I'm sure in war all participants interrogate their prisoners, and you would expect a certain amount of threats, intimidation, etc. But you should not expect torture, which is what these soldiers appear to have done.

They also appear to think it's all fine. If you're doing something you know is wrong, and that you know you are likely to be punished for if caught, you would hardly take photos of the occasion, surely. Unless you're a complete moron. Oh wait...

Wednesday 5 May 2004

A double moron to go thanks

OK so this is getting ridiculous. What kind of recruitment program do they have going in the US Army, one wonders? Here's today's outrage:

"Guard commander disciplined for nude photos of female soldiers Original Article: San Francisco Chronicle The former commander of a California National Guard unit faces a court martial after being accused of taking naked pictures of female soldiers in Iraq while they showered, the Contra Costa Times reported. The photographs were allegedly taken by Capt. Leo V. Merck, 32, of Fremont, Calif., while he was at the Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad -- the same place U.S. Army soldiers were filmed mistreating Iraqi prisoners." Read the article.

Writing happiness

I finished Healing Soup last night, though I do still have some lingering doubts about the number of cows my POV character should own. I'll leave it for a few days and go back to it. I did spend an hour or more yesterday finding out which kind of evergreen tree might grow in the graveyard. I was discouraged but then I heard a lineup of Clarion tutors all saying, "Be specific", and "Trees lining the graveyard" just didn't cut it.

So, now I know. They are juniper trees. I had no idea they grew in China or that they are evergreen, but they do and they are.

So, now I can legitimately go back to Land of Words.. oh wait, I have yet to finish Hugdoll. Damn. Hell, I think I'll just write what I want to write and hang it.

Continuum?

Much discussion about what people are wearing to the maskoballo at Continuum. I'm not taking part because I don't think I'll be going. I have not quite recovered from Conflux. I still have a pasty, didn't sleep for days look, a nice fresh crop of pimples. I'm tempted to go, though, mighty tempted. Conflux was such a blast.

Bookcase happiness

Did I mention I have my new bookcases? They arrived a while I was at Conflux and I have now put all my books in them. It's wonderful! No more horrible white bowed-in-the-centre Ikea chipped bookcases. These are solid cherry, handmade to fit the space.

This is not as expensive as it sounds, compared to buying three bookcases in a furniture store, made of solid wood, these were $500 extra to have them made exactly to my specifications and matching my desk and bookcase.

I had them made at Shaker furniture in Rozelle, who are a MAJOR PAIN to deal with but I love the result so much I put up with it. They are arranged around the alcove in my study and I plan to refer to it hautily as "my library".

Inside I am whooping with glee because ever since I was a little girl I have wanted something like this. Why on earth I didn't make it happen before is beyond me.

Of course I took the opportunity to throw out a bunch of things I will never read again, my old text books from my MA in Journalism, conference notes of things I'd forgotten I went to, even the old publications I used to produce which I'd kept examples of. If I ever work in publishing again, which is doubtful, they will be so old as to actually work against me in an interview.

So now I have:

• a shelf of business references
• a shelf of general reference and non-fiction
• a shelf of SF/fantasy magazines, overseas
• 2 shelves of SF/fantasy anthologies, overseas
• 1 shelf of Australian SF/fantasy anthologies and magazines
• 2 shelves of books I have yet to read from all categories
• 4 shelves of SF/fantasy
• 2 shelves of general fiction
• 1 shelf of how-to-write books, dictionaries, baby name books, fact-references, encyclopedia, thesaurus, writers guide, Phrase and Fable, etc.
• two cupboards full of old sheet music that I can't yet bear to throw out.

In assembling this, I discover I have a lot of Orson Scott Card and Ray Bradbury and Phillip K Dick, plus several Ursula Le Guin and Kim Wilkins. There are dreadful gaps, mostly of books I loved but threw out in various culls. Sob. You just can't keep every book around. I keep what I think I will reread and what I loved so much I can't stand to throw out.

I know this meagre collection can never measure up to the glory that is Cat and Rob's magnificent collection, which lines every wall of a very large room packed from floor to ceiling with goodies.

But it's mine, and I love it.

This is one of the glories of getting older. On the downside, you take over a week to recover from partying all weekend. But on the plus side, you get to decorate your own study, buy real Persian rugs for the floor and build a library to your specifications. Hah.

Thursday 6 May 2004

Writing

I did some work on Land of Words last night, it's coming along nicely. I just can't get excited about Hugdoll at this point, so I'm going to leave it to mature a bit longer.

Here's an excerpt from Healing Soup:

The ancestors came closer and began to beat his body with their fists and bend his limbs. He woke to find himself covered in sweat, his body aching and limbs torn with pain.

Every night from then on, her ancestors came to him and hurt him, but during the day he delighted in Mushu's health and vigour. He renewed his belief that, whatever the cost, he had done the right thing. He could bear anything in return for his wife's cheerful smile.

This is me (foreground), Zara Baxter (background), Rob Hood (background), Louise Barnes (foreground) and Ben Peek (background) at the Magic Casements dinner. Yeah, it happened weeks ago, call me slack. Louise and I were going halvsies on the two-for-one happy hour cocktails, and I think we're up to about our fourth here... feeling rather giggly as you can see.

How lucky is THAT

OK, call me ghoulish. But I am tickled by this story where really I should be completely horrified. I guess laughing is a response to horror, I saw it a lot at Clarion (and in fact in response to my Healing Soup story too). You either get horrified, or it passes the point you can tolerate and you laugh, or you reject the whole thing completely.

I laughed.

This poor guy, Isidro Mejia, had a leetle accident with his nailgun, and lived to tell the tale. Note especially the nails smack between the eyes. An inch to the right or left, and bye bye. They barely missed his spine and brain stem.

Apparently Mejia was working as a builder on the roof of a house in Los Angeles when he fell onto a co-worker who was using a nailgun on the second floor. They grabbed each other for balance but ended up falling anyway. The nailgun discharged and sent the nails into Mejia's head. These nails drive through 2-cm plywood.

Ouch. Gotta hurt.

And the kicker? He's alive, not paralysed and will make a full recovery. Though I have noticed what doctors call "full" isn't what I'd call "full".

Names

I notice how long it takes people to shorten my name, from Alinta to Linta. It's usually about ten times.. that is, ten interactions. In some cases people feel comfortable sooner and drop into Linta quite quickly. It also depends on their formality level. Some people never go there and a few casual types start with Linta immediately.

I quite like it. It shows a comfort level with me that I like, and importantly it distinguishes me from the blooming gas/energy company Alinta, who used to be called Alintagas but now, irritatingly as hell, call themselves simply Alinta, just like me.

Though Alinta is such a pretty name, I don't mind people using it all, don't get me wrong.

Woe betide you if you try to call me Ali though. I simply won't answer, that's all.

Having a name like mine is a burden and a boon, for the same reason: it's so unusual. No one can miss me on the web.. put in my first name alone, filter out Alintagas, and boom there I am.

People who met me ten years ago may not remember my face or anything about me, but do remember my name. I once did an interview in which the man puzzled for the whole hour, and at the end triumphantly said, I remember, you refused to teach my child the violin when I rang you for lessons ten years ago.

I probably didn't have any places left, I said. Oh yes that's what you said at the time, he replied, and gave the job to someone else.

Geez. So it's not a name to be anonymous with.

Friday 7 May 2004

Life in the land of cancer

My mum sent me an email yesterday. It makes very little sense. I read it and bawled.

"I am thinking I have, well more time than when first sees. My spelling is bad though, sorry. As for my grammar!!! My left 1st finger is sometimes jingle. That was down on the list!!!"

I sort of know what she means but... well it's horrible.

She was such an intelligent, focussed person and here she is unable to express the most basic idea properly. I don't think she's less intelligent than before, but certainly she's not as focussed, she's not able to form judgements as easily or think critically, and words are a real trial.

So rather than sending flowers for Mother's Day, I decided to send myself instead. I'm just going down over Saturday night, and I'll fix the little jobs she needs help with, and cook her Hungarian plum dumplings, and take her to Mother's Day lunch.

The irony strikes me: here I am, struggling to express myself in the most beautiful and striking way possible in my stories, and here's my mum, losing comprehension and even the most basic expression.

Cool site of the day

This site lets you draw with an online pen, change colours, thicken lines.. then send the results to someone via email and they can 'watch' you draw it for them.

Check it out. This is the pathetic cat I drew. I'm sure you can do better.

What to say

I have noticed how hard it is for some people to find the right thing to say to me about my mother's brain cancer (glioblastoma multiforme). So here's a handy guide.

When you first find out: I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. How are you? How is she? That really sucks.

As things progress: no need to ask if you don't want to, but it's appreciated if you occasionally say, how is your mum. No need to refer to it every time, though. Asking now and then lets me know you'll be willing to hear about it if I need to vent.

Things not to say: never mind. Keep your chin up.

Poor mum has had to break the news over and over. Sure, a few friends spread the news for her, but inevitably a few people had to hear directly from her. Some people don't handle it at all well. She's used to the idea now, but it's a shock for them. One friend hung up in tears and hasn't called back.

In hindsight, I would have made sure to have a systematic plan so that mum didn't need to tell as many people herself.

Tuesday 11 May 2004

Life in the land of cancer

I spent the weekend in Adelaide, and it was both great and awful. My mum's words are coming even more hesitantly. I've worked out why she says "yeah" so much. Her sentence will go like this: "I saw...C..F..Bob yesterday, and she said...Yeah."

At one point she said a sentence like this, and followed with: "But I don't know the words for that." So I think "yeah" means she's worked out in her mind what she's trying to say, and says, "Yeah". But then converting that into words just doesn't always happen.

Interestingly, I don't find myself getting annoyed. There's no need for patience (which to me implies suppressed irritation). I just wait and eventually she manages to communicate. I do a bit of guessing, but not too much. I wait until she really hasn't found the word.

On Saturday night I made her plum dumplings, and she ate the lot with relish. She's lost a lot of weight and eats everything, but is supposed to be eating a really healthy diet to help the cancer. How unfair is that? Finally a metabolism that lets you guzzle, and you can't.

Mum can't remember tunes very well any more. Music and speech live side by side in the temporal lobe. She tried to sing a Mozart Laudate Dominum for me, looking right at the score, and hardly a note was right.

She's also starting to drop things, and spill food, and one finger is jittery, though worryingly not on the right side which corresponds to the left temporal lobe. It's on the left. This may just be the radiation treatment, or it may mean the cancer has spread to the other side of her brain.

On the plus side, mum is feeling pretty good. She's always been a positive person, but she's even more positive now. Everything is "wonderful" and "wow". She appreciates everything she has and all the people around her, and the time she has left. "I've really had a wonderful life you know," she said. We reminisced about our best concerts performed, best listened to, best days... and I had to agree, she has had a wonderful life.

I think all of that is totally extraordinary. Most people under these conditions would wilt, get depressed or angry, but mum is for the most part happy and cheerful. That's her basic nature, I guess, but it's still striking.

On Saturday night we adjusted our eyes to the dark then went out to look at the comet (near Sirius in the west, if you want to go see). It's actually visible with the naked (dark adjusted) eye, and we looked at it through powerful binoculars and you can see the head of the comet and the tail quite clearly. Very cool.

On Mother's Day we went to a swish Italian restaurant and ate at an outside table, the weather was totally glorious, my favourite kind of day. It was clear blue skies, a zephyr (hah, always wanted to use that in a sentence), autumn leaves on the trees above us, boxes of lavender beside us. The food was pretty good and we had a nice time.

Of course, underlying the whole thing was my anxiety about her health and the distress I feel watching her decline. But I'm glad I went, she loved me being there and I am happy to spend time with her while she still can communicate.

Writing

On the plane to Canberra yesterday I took out my trusty notebook (a tiny one I always have in my bag) and wrote a short story about the weekend. I got home and sliced it to 600 words, thinking I might submit it to the Commonwealth Short Story competition. Though it has no plot at this stage it's more a vignette, so perhaps a rewrite is needed.

Excerpt:

At home, Sabine's mother opened some sheet music. "See this?" She pointed to the score of the Laudate Dominum from Mozart's Vespers. "Do you know it?"

The world span and time receded to fifteen years earlier. Sabine played the Vespers in the orchestra as her mother watched, then came backstage. She hugged Sabine tight and said, "I'm so proud of you, darling!"

"Yes, I know it."

"It goes like this," she said, and sang.

Not a single note was right.

The waiting beasts had snatched it, devouring it in their dark wet mouths. Mozart turned in their stomachs, making them growl pianissimo.

 

I morph into Miss Manners

Here's something I hate. You're in a taxi with someone, or in a restaurant or whatever, and they talk on their mobile. Now I don't mind someone answering the phone and having a brief conversation (1-2 minutes), or answering long enough to say I'll call you back later.

But a long, detailed, even personal conversation, no. It's just plain rude. I can't openly look at you and listen since it's not a conversation that includes me. But I can't daydream because there's your voice droning on. I'm with you physically, trapped! I'm being ignored, and it isn't nice.

If anyone does this to me in future, I have decided I will just whip out a book or my notebook and "resign" from the shared space the way they are, pretend they're not there. See to me, it's the same as if I was with someone and started reading a book. Now that's ok in an intimate relationship (Tony and I often read together at a cafe), but not for others. Right?

Miss Manners' pronouncement: Any place where you would never dream of reading a book, don't talk on your mobile for over 2 minutes, crisis situations excepted.

That's all from Miss Manners today.

Iraq

Now I'm hoping those pictures and videos of the tortures in occupied Iraq keep coming. Maybe it'll help to get Australia out of there. Maybe it'll help Not-president Bush lose office.

That's gotta be good.

I morph into Nostradamus

The surprise for me in this is that anyone is shocked about people using digital cameras this way. Of COURSE they use them. People use every new technology to communicate, to show off, to record, they always have. I am shocked they'd think this an appropriate thing to record, but once done, naturally they get shared around on email.

Nostradamus's prediction: Digital cameras and video phones are going to revolutionise a whole lot of things we haven't yet thought of, the same as mobile phones have. How about those "I love you" phone calls from the 9/11 flights to loved ones, or that mountaineer on Mt Everest who called his wife to say he was dying and he loved her? The way it's changed how you meet up with friends? The flexibility it gives you?

There's less investment in taking a photo now. You can take 50 shots of one thing knowing you can erase them later, and see them without paying any money, and share them without paying as well, no postage, envelopes, stamps...

It's so much easier, and that means more photos of things people used not to photograph. Video phones are a whole new ballgame too. You can't phone home and say, I'm working late, when you are visible against the bar in the background. It'll be very interesting to see how that changes all kinds of things.

So daggy it's cool

I am happy today to discover that I am a GRAMMAR GOD!

Are you?

Wednesday 12 May 2004

Writing

Finished a second draft of Jigsaw Puzzle yesterday. I looked at Nalo's blog, and found she had submitted a story to the Commonwealth Short Story competition. This made me decide not to bother entering a story. If people like her are sending things, well...better to send that story out and (hopefully) get it published.

Also I spent some time with Emma last night plot noodling, which was lots of fun. I made an asparagus risotto, and then we pondered five different ways of achieving the effect she wants for her story, and six different plotlines.

I think she went away feeling ready to make decisions, I hope it wasn't too overwhelming. Her idea is just SO cool, I'm dead keen to see how she works it through.

Compering

I've been asked to compere my mother's 25th anniversary concert in June, which celebrates the anniversary of us setting up Suzuki violin method in South Australia. That's going to be lots of fun, and I'm sure mum will get a big kick out of me doing it, even if it means I'm not sitting next to her for it all.

Vodafone shonkiness

Okay, so I have always been a staunch admirer of Vodafone's service. In particular I love their 123 service. You can call and get connected to any number, but they'll also do things like tell you how to get somewhere, or look up a word for you, or whatever other crazy thing you ask them.

Of course, you pay for the service, but to date, and I emphasis to date, that has always seemed reasonable.

Last month's bill arrived and to my horror the call I made to a friend in Melbourne was charged at $64. It should have been $0. I have 400 minutes of free talk time in off-peak time (post 7pm). So I call Vodafone, and the lovely man there explained that because I got 123 to connect me (I'd lost my filofax and didn't have the number), I was charged the 123 rate for the entire call.

He tried to tell me that I should know this, I was told when I signed up in 2000. It's on their web site. I patiently explained that this meant I had to know that the information was needed in order to go look, whereas I already thought I knew the situation.

It sucks. They've legally covered their butts, but they haven't done the right thing by their customer. They've offered to refund half the amount, which is something, but in no way agreed to even consider changing their communication about this.

So, Vodafone, for $60, you've changed a previously loyal customer into a pissed off one, ready to change telecommunications companies should the opportunity arise. Well done!

Friday 14 May 2004

Weebl is a jelly

This is so very silly. I love silly.

And on the subject of silly, I'm missing Posh Nosh, recently departed from our ABC screens. Ten weekly minutes of utter silliness, wonderful stuff. "Now, enunciate the chicken, and savage the bread." Or this: "To make leftovers, you simply take the bread, embarrass it. Now tip out a little of the wine (*glugs some into mouth*). And there you are: leftovers. Brilliant."

Word counts, pah.

A word count is so crude. For instance, I wrote just 200 words last night. I was fiddling with my Land of Words story. I haven't written the end yet, though (at last) I did finish the scene I was stuck on. In addition, I refined, polished and honed.

I'm heartened by Nalo's word count. I check her blog most days, and she rarely writes more than 500-600 words. Mind you, they are far more wonderful than mine, but still, she's a full time writer.

It annoys me that my word count on this page doesn't show the rewritten, the refined, the polished words. No more words than yesterday, just better ones. Or there may even be fewer words, thus making those that are left more effective.

Sheet Music

I'm reading Sheet Music by M J Rose, and it's taking my breath away. She writes the way I'd like to write. No, I don't just admire her style. I have her style, only she does it better, the cow.

It's her fourth novel, so I shouldn't complain. But I love the way she writes, so sensual, so emotional, yet clear and gripping. She's way better a writer than me. The thing is, though, it sounds like a better version of my writing. I'm torn - should I read all her books, or will that just send me off more in her direction? After all, I can't clone her. I'm sure my style has differences from hers. The story of mine that's closest to this is Tante Lini.

Here's a sample from the opening of Sheet Music:

He is addicted to a certain look of pleasure I bestow upon him when he brings me treats. And so he makes an effort with our postcoital feasts. He knows I am always hungry. He doesn't know that, no matter what I eat, I am never full.

Tonight after we make love he brings out a china white plate of thin slices of apple and a pot of honey from Provence.

Apples remind me of home, a place that exists nowhere but in memory. Closing my eyes, I get closer to the reminiscences: to see and feel, smell and taste that past.

He thinks my contented sigh is for him.

Doesn't he know it's dangerous to make assumptions?

Sigh.

Wednesday 19 May 2004

Life in the land of cancer

Sunday was a difficult day. It started out well, we went to see The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I really enjoyed. Brilliant script, great acting, only one or two tiny plot problems (how did Kate Winslet know to meet him in Montauk? It wasn't really her he was talking to, was it?).

Then mum rang to ask me to help her with something, it took a few minutes to work out she meant placing an ad in the paper. She was laughing because she knew it had all come out as gobbledegook. I rewrote it for her, and sent it, then sat there thinking, this is the worst so far. She couldn't make a sentence that actually made sense. I knew what she meant only because I have all the context.

Monday was worse. Mike rang during the day to say mum had been sleeping all day and didn't even want a cup of tea. For her that's very serious, since she likes to drink about 20 cups a day.

He put her on the phone and I think I made out one or two words, that was all. She was barely able to speak. I told him not to worry, it was probably just the radiotherapy making her tired. But together with the decline I've been seeing, the left finger jiggling and now this, I had a sinking feeling things were going downhill.

Yesterday that turned out to be true. She had the MRI last Friday, and the results came back showing that the tumour has grown back into the same area the surgeon removed it from seven weeks ago, only bigger. It's also spread into the right side, as I feared.

So that means none of the treatments have worked, except perhaps the surgery bought her a few extra weeks. While mum has used those weeks well, putting her affairs in order, saying goodbye, winding down all the things she does and handing them over...it's not worth the trauma of another operation to get another six weeks. The radiotherapy has not worked at all, and chemo is both traumatic and has a very low rate of success. The other treatments available are experimental and don't tend to work on the most aggressive tumours like the one she has.

In short, she's pretty much out of treatment options. No one has given her an estimate of time she has left, but it can't be more than two months, and may be less. Mum was upset, naturally, since she thought she might have until the end of the year, and had planned a nice long holiday with Michael in Queensland.

I told her to do all the things that seem important to her, visit Lesley (my sister), go on that holiday, etc. Aunt Louise is visiting this week before she heads off on her European trip (she's studying Alexander Technique in Italy). I will see her again shortly, perhaps on the way back from Queensland. And she's throwing a big goodbye party for all her friends this weekend. That's so like mum! At least one good thing, she won't have pain, since the brain has no pain receptors in it, or so I understand.

So with all that I got no writing done yesterday.. well I did do a little last night but it was all crap.

Alinta club

I have had a note from another Alinta: Alinta Pilkington, a 15 year old student at the Newtown Performing Arts High, and she says she knows a couple more of us. So (sob) I'm getting less unique every year... How will I cope?

Nah, it's cool. I'm sure all of us Alintas are truly fab people (and modest as well, hehe). It means "Flame" after all, and I like to think it describes an inner intensity.

Between Space is in space

I still don't have a copy of the long-mooted Between Space anthology, supposedly being printed at the end of February. Starting to think it's a chimera.

Thursday 20 May 2004

"As featured in Asimov's"

<begin gushy rave>

Cat sent around an email today quoting from the July issue of Asimov's magazine. In it there's a review from Paul Di Filipo, and I quote:

"Anthologies

"Australia continues to flourish as a hotbed of adventurous SF writing in both long and shorter modes. And of course, having a handful of regular magazines as venues for such stories is essential. One such is Fables and Reflections (perfect-bound, AUS$9.50, 68 pages. ISSN 1446-1900), edited by Lily Chrywenstrom.

"Having just won a Ditmar Award, this zine is flying high with issue number five. From Matthew Chrulew's story about super-bugs, "Roach Theory", to Alinta Thornton's "Tanglehound", which finds an intriguing new objective correlative to the interdependence of all the components of the cosmos, this fine little magazine offers a peek into the training grounds for future stars.

"Cat Sparks has a good story in Fables and Reflections, but it's as editor of Agog! Terrific Tales (Agog! Press, trade paper, AUS$24.95, 275 pages, ISBN 0-9580567-2-2) that she really shines this time around. Perhaps even more rewarding than the previous volume from Agog!, this collection of twenty-one stories showcases the wide variety of voices working Down Under.

"Every piece exhibits at least journeyman competence, while others are masterful. I particularly enjoyed Robert Hood's "JAM Jars", about an alien-fostered nanotech plague, and Martin Livings's "Sigmund Freud and the Feral Freeway", in which a robot psychologist has to conduct some perilous negotiations with a sentient roadway. All in all, this volume is a must-have."

Woohoo! Go us!

I am so thrilled. Especially with this bit: "an intriguing new objective correlative to the interdependence of all the components of the cosmos". I mean, it's all true, I'm sure, if only I knew what the hell he means by it, lol.

Oh, and "future stars"... now that's damn cool too. I've been a right pain ever since it arrived, wandering around my office, saying, hi, future star here, as featured in Asimov's.

I'll be over it any decade now.

Also I'm thrilled for Cat, Matt, Lily and Rob. And Martin too, except I don't think we've met, but I'm thrilled anyway, that's the kind of person I am, thank you thank you.

*Pours calming oil on self, bursts bubble, explodes up own arse.*

<end gushy rave>.

Friday 21 May 2004

You're one of THOSE

Yep, I'm "one of those".

I rang Billy Hyde's (a guitar and music shop in Surry Hills) to see if they wanted to buy my Music Man amplifier. I got put through to a young-sounding man.

Me: Do you buy old amplifiers?

Young-sounding man: No, we don't

Me: OK, do you know of anywhere that does?

YSM: What amp do you have dear?

Me: I beg your pardon, what did you call me?

YSM: (yells) You're not one of THOSE are you?

Me: Yes, I'm one of those. F**k off! (Slam down phone).

Note to world: when dealing with a customer, show just a little respect. I'm not your dear, your love, or your sweetheart. In short, I AM one of those - one of those annoying people who want to be treated with courtesy.

Grrr.

While I'm being one of THOSE....

I'm gonna point out something else irritating.

Before I explain, I should say that long gone are the days when sexist stuff got in my face every single day. But it's still out there and it still gives me the right irrits. I was working before the Equal Opportunity Act came in, and all kinds of things have happened to me that have made me feel very second class:

• I have been sacked for being female and married (you're taking a job away from a man, your husband should support you)
• I've been told: "We wouldn't have hired you if we knew you were married" (a different job)
• The all male managers' meetings where you'd say something, it would be ignored, then a man would say it and it would be feted as "Kevin's great idea".
• Arriving for a violin playing gig and finding one band room I had to share with three men, in which we all had to change costumes, the walls papered with full-on hard core pornography
• The senior manager in one office I worked in who treated me as his assistant just because I sat nearby and I was female.. he used to try to give me typing to do and make me fix his photocopying, take his messages
• The client who said to me, "It's amazing how many people in business are women these days"
• The senior accountant who began a focus group meeting by informing me I would play the role of Divine Brown (the prostitute Hugh Grant was caught with).. it's a long story how this came to pass, but the circumstances don't shed any better light on him, take my word for it
• The list goes on and on... but you get the idea.

So.. here's the story from today's Sydney Morning Herald. Eight of the nine finalists in the Cure Cancer Australia's Young Researcher of the Year award were women. The winner was a woman (Dr Catherine Suter, for the record).

The story quotes Dr Suter saying that "This highlighted the depth of young female talent in medical research and the importance of removing any barriers that might prevent women continuing in careers to improve the health of the nation."

Check out the photo that appeared next to the story.

Spot anything odd?

Yep, not only is one researcher higlighted male, he is NOT the winner. The winner, folks, is the blurry woman standing second from the right.

That was bad enough. But in today's letters page, two women wrote in blasting the women in the photo, as follows:

"Come on, girls. Eight great minds; eight leading young cancer researchers ("Warriors in pursuit of the deadly enemy", Herald, May 20). What possessed you to allow the photographer to pose you behind your only male colleague? Dr Annie Bolitho and Dr Lyn Carson, Newtown, May 20. "

Come on girls? Why blame the women for institutionalised sexism? The photographer is the one, presumably, who set up the shot. His name, by the way, was Wade Laube.

So why does this letter not squarely put responsibility down to the perpetrator? It's so much safer to blame the victim. Throughout history people have always done this.. she shouldn't have been out walking at night to her car, she shouldn't have dressed this way..etc. Not, the man shouldn't have raped her.

No, I'm not comparing this photo to a rape.

I'm just saying, the impulse to blame the victim is there, and it's shown here in all its ugly starkness.

Please, don't do it.

Wade Laube, the photographer, presumably chose how to set up the shot. Yes, the women could have protested, and they didn't and that's a shame, but the person to point the finger at is the one who (presumably) created it in the first place.

And just to make sure I'm not just blaming the victim either: Wade, if you're reading this.. yes, it's an artistic shot, but it does not illustrate the story accurately. You priveleged artistic arrangement over journalistic accuracy.. the story is not about one man being singled out with his female minions toiling almost anonymously (blurrily) in the background.

OK. I've had my say now.. back to normal programming.

Dammit, wish I'd had my camera

Having lunch today in Australia Square, a table of characters assembled who if placed in a story would be utterly unbelievable.

The standout was an Italian looking man who bore a distinct resemblance to a youngish Robert DeNiro. He sported a dark navy pinstriped suit, black shirt and tie, and a trilby, all of which he wore without a trace of irony. He sat back in the chair and sucked on an expensive smelling cigar. Which is why we noticed him.. it stank.

Next to him was a Chinese man also dressed in a black suit, black shirt, though no tie. Next to him was a guy who looked rather Irish, with a sharp face, bulbous nose and pointed chin, with an air of command about him.

Next to DeNiro sat a man who looked Italian to me, though dressed in a grey business suit that differed little from any businessman in the joint. And finally, a woman dressed in a black business suit and sharp haircut.

All of them had an air of authority and danger, with the exception of the last two who were somewhat deferential to DeNiro.

Were they a group of friends having a natter? I didn't think so.. they looked like they were having some kind of serious meeting. The waitress offered us free coffees and whispered, "I tried to get them to leave and smoke their cigars somewhere else but they won't shift."

So my probably fanciful take: the Mafia, his henchman, a crime boss matriarch, a gangland boss, and a Triad guy, having a summit meeting.

Or not.

Monday 24 May 2004

Billy Hyde apologises

Apparently, the manager of the Surry Hills NSW store is very sorry for the treatment I received.. but can't imagine who I spoke to since they don't have a guitar department. Perhaps someone in Melbourne? Teehee.

Still at least they bothered to reply and they sound suitably sorry.

Peace and quiet

Tony and I went to a lovely cottage at Pearl Beach over the weekend, courtesy of a grateful client of mum's for her doggy holiday web site. It's a lovely old shack with louvre windows two streets back from the beach. The weather was glorious, and all we did was eat, sleep, eat, sleep.. a walk on the beach.. read...all that. On Saturday night we ate a marvellous meal at Susan's place (my boss). She weekends there most weeks, and is a gourmet cook. I made plum dumplings for dessert, and it was a lovely evening.

In an act of self protection I didn't take my laptop so I was forced not to work. A couple of days off did me the world of good.

Writing

I am thrilled to have sold a story to Orb magazine.. The Healing Soup of ChuChou Village. I'm also happy because Chris came up with the perfect ending for my Love in the Land of Words story that has had me so stumped for weeks. I'm finally able to see how it might finish. I'm starting to hate the title though. Thorbies is this weekend, hopefully I'll get a draft finished by then.

Reading

Read Connie Willis' novella in Asimov's magazine, called "Just like the ones we used to know", and to my amazement, it sucks. Yeah, it reads okay - everything by Connie reads okay - but as a story, it sucks.

I love Connie Willis, but I think this story was published only because it's by her. Printed out on A4 it came to 48 pages, and I felt that if she'd presented it to Thorbies it would not have passed muster.

The story concerns a USA-wide blizzard, either caused by a discontinuity in the weather presaging the global warming onslaught, or possibly because a number of people around the US want it to snow for Christmas. She never resolves which, or really develops either, and there is a great deal of rambling about characters I never came to care about.

What a disappointment!

Life in the Land of cancer

Mum held her goodbye party yesterday, a huge number of people came including her violin teacher from university, a whole lot of musician friends, heaps of people. She had a great day.

Today she's seeing the oncologist about this new chemotherapy treatment instead of going to Perth to see Lesley (my sister). And the good news is that the blob in the right side of her brain is not in fact the tumour spreading, but instead swelling caused by the radiation therapy, so hopefully it will simply go back down now that that treatment is over.

So perhaps she has a little longer than we thought last week, and may see the baby arrive. This is such a rollercoaster ride.

Weirdness on a Japanese island

According to BoingBoing: "Off the westernmost coast of Japan is an island called "Gunkanjima" that is hardly known even to the Japanese. Long ago, the island was nothing more than a small reef. Then in 1810, the chance discovery of coal drastically changed the fate of this reef. As reclamation began, people came to live here, and through coal mining the reef started to expand continuously.

"Before long, the reef had grown into an artificial island of one kilometer (three quarters of a mile) in perimeter, with a population of 5300. Eventually, the mines faced an end, and in 1974 the world's once most densely populated island become totally deserted.

"The island, after all its inhabitants departed leaving behind their belongings, became an empty shell of a city where all its people disappeared overnight, as if by some mysterious act of God."

Check out the spooky photos yourself.

Wednesday 26 May 2004

Billy Hyde apologises again!

These guys are practically prostrating themselves. Actually it's getting a little beyond a joke. I guess at least they're taking my complaint seriously.

Hehe, perhaps they found this page on the web? This morning I had an emaill from the General Manager:

"First of all let me formally apologise on behalf of Billy Hyde Music for the totally unacceptable phone behaviour that has obviously upset you.

..."I will endeavour to find the person you spoke with and will give the appropriate punishment, as a prominent music store we cannot afford and will not stand for this type of behaviour. We do pride ourselves with good old fashioned personal service, however in this case it sounds like no common courtesy was used at all! And for that we are truly sorry.

"I thank you for airing your concerns and making us aware of the situation, we can now fix this problem. If you wish to contact me by phone I would be happy to talk to you about this in person, my phone number is..."

OK, enough already guys. I note though that after several days they still haven't worked out who it was.

Yeehar!

At last, I have a draft of Love in the Land of Words that actually gets to the end. The ending suggested by Chris works fine (thanks babe!). I read it over this morning though and realised that there is too much middle, a failing caused by continuing to write even though I had no idea where it was going to end up. I'm sure that's why so many movies drag in the middle.

Also I have missed out a crucial scene. That's another common failing of mine, I skip over the motivation scene because it seems obvious, or maybe underneath I'm scared to write it. This one is particularly hard to write. How can I imagine what Mika feels like? It's going to be quite a stretch, and I can't exactly research it either.

At least it's ended now, and the sense of relief I feel is enormous, even though I have much more work to do.

Possibly rashly, I promised to send Jigsaw Puzzle to Andromeda Spaceways in the next few days, it needs a tidy up, nothing much, but how am I going to do that plus the new scene? Ah, the writer's life. I am wondering if Tony will remember what I look like at the end of this week.

Thursday 27 May 2004

Land of words 1

I live in the land of words at the moment. When not at work, I am in my study, head down, typing away.

Is it a useful way to displace my attention from my mum's illness and cope with what's going on? Or just my current obsession? Both, probably.

If I do sit in front of the television I instantly get restless unless it's some brilliantly rivetting movie...or rubbish that I especially like. There are only three.

Charmed. I know, it's awful, but I love it. Especially I love vanquishing demons who vanish and leave nothing behind to vacuum.

Law and Order, I love CSI only for the black lieutenant, because his voice sends me into transports of delight. I don't mind the other two in the franchise either, they're tightly written if often predictable, but am happy to skip any of them.

Stargate, though it's off air at the moment, I can't wait to see the final series.

That's really it. I saw every episode of Buffy until it finished, and Gilmore Girls, but have lost interest in that; All Saints but now it's so tedious even I have to admit it (I watched it every week since the beginning). The move into the ER killed it totally for me. I don't mind some of those English mysteries, Taggart, Silent Witness, Frost, etc but I don't rush home to watch them either.

Land of words 2

I am refining my Love in the Land of Words story, have all the scenes I need in there and am cutting back on the extra wordage. I'm not sure how much of the detail to leave in, I suspect I have too much there but it's hard to work out what to cut.

Today's excerpt:

The man opened the door, but not before demanding payment. Gold coins dropped into his pudgy hands, tumbling, spinning. One came to rest in the cracks between two floorboards. He reached down to pick it up.

Mika pushed through the door and padded into the room in bare feeet. Gleaming objects lined the walls, arrranged artfully on ebony shelves. Golden glassware jostled paintings, ruby bracelets and a row of jars in jewel shades.

"Take whatever you want," the doorman said.

She chose a translucent red jar and placed it in her wicker basket. As she reached for the green one next to it, the others fell to the ground and shattered into multicoloured shards. Her basket fell too, red and green slipping to join the others. There was nowhere else to stand but on glass. Rivulets of blood trickled over the pieces, joining them into a kaleidoscope of pain.

Life in the land of cancer

Mum started her chemotherapy today on a drug called Temodar. It has a 30% success rate, whatever that means. Mum is hopeful that she has longer than we thought last week, that she will get to see the baby born.

She rang me this morning to say she was organising her funeral, and could I please tell her my date of birth.

Not often your own mother needs to ask when you were born.

Of course it's not anything to take personally, it's just that bit of brain missing. But all the same, it's another little piece of her gone.

31 May 2004

Writing

Thorbies was odd this month without Cat and Rob, they have been so much the centre of the group. We will probably find a different dynamic emerging. Those of us who went to Clarion (four out of the seven present yesterday) are still acting a bit as the Clarionborg, bursting into snatches of incomprehensible references and rituals from time to time, irritating as hell I'm sure.

Eventually I guess we'll get over it, it does seem to be less marked than it was.

The critiques are consistently good, and I was pleased with the feedback I got on Love in the Land of Words, although I have NO idea where to submit it. It has too much sex in it for a standard SF publication I think, but not enough for an erotica collection. Hrmph.

I have sworn off writing sex for a while. It's all too difficult. Unless I get a nom de plume and start making a fortune. These publications pay! I mean, PAY. As in, 10c a word, making it an actually worthwile thing to do from a business point of view, though perhaps not as much artistically.

Three crowns this week: Chris, for his first paid publication (in Encounters); Mark, for his first finished story; and me, for acceptance into the current issue of Orb. The boys looked so fetching in their pink and blue fluffy crowns.

Music for writing

As many of you would know, I had a previous career as a violinist. This makes me a right pain when it comes to music. I don't like very much popular music, pop, rock, hard metal, it all seems too repetitive, the voices are harsh, there's so little variation in the sound or melody and it's so often played relentlessly loud.

I do like blues, no I love blues. Gypsy music is a favourite, also flamenco, some African sounds are great too.

And of course, classical.

But for writing, I used to have silence. At Clarion I needed to use music to fade the background yelling (!) to a minimum. So now I have music as I write. All I can take is one recording played over and over, so that my brain can relegate it to the background as part of the furniture.

For months and months it was Chris's recording of Ottmar Liebert's wonderful CD, Nouveau Flamenco. I liked it so much I bought my own copy, but didn't realise it was a re-recorded version. It really bothered me, because I'd listened to it so much I knew every note, and the new version is just slightly different. Like a true gentleman, Chris let me keep his copy and took the new one in return.

I still play it a lot, but for writing I'm listening to Buddy Guy's acoustic blues CD, Blues Singer. My favourite track is Anna Lee. He has a beautiful voice, so smooth, so full of emotion. Yet I find the recording soothing to write to. When I say I'm listenting to it, I have it on continuous repeat, every time I write, the whole time. I must have heard the CD a thousand times already.

Bleah!

<begin rant>

Chinese food is not the only place where they do this. No. It happens in the best restaurants. What am I talking about? The terrible crime of:

You know what I'm talking about. You order a plate of boiled rice. They offer you two choices for seven bucks, so you pick, say, Mongolian lamb and a curry.

Do they put one on one side of the plate, and the other on the other side? Nooooo. They plonk one down nearly on top of the other one.

Now, if I had wanted a Mongolian lamb curry, I would have freaking asked for one. Call me picky.

I was in an expensive joint recently where they gave me a delicious beef ragout and a salad on the side. They drizzled a vinaigrette over the salad which of course slid around the plate the way liquids kind of TEND TO DO, guys, so I ended up with beef ragout with vinaigrette. Bleah.

Please, any cooks reading this, remember this important rule: liquid spreads. And rule no 2, if you wouldn't mix it in the pot, don't freaking mix it on the plate, k?

<end rant>

Alinta's blog

I have several rants on this page this month, I just realised. They happen in direct proportion to the amount of angst I'm feeling about my mum's health.

Maybe I should rename this blog, to "Alinta's rant". Actually I've been wondering if I should rename it to something really cool. You see all these great names out there, like Boing, Pigs and fishes, Red Rock Eater, Alas, and other incomprehensible names.

Incomprehensible, but cool as all get out.

At the other extreme is Nalo Hopkinson's blog, snappily titled, "An intermittent diary pertaining to my writing life". What it definitely lacks in cool it makes up for in buckets of specificity and clarity.

I considered the following names:

• What is that?
• Clarion calling
• Impromptu
• Alinta's Boudoir

This made me see that I'm not a cool type. All these names are very daggy, and anyway I prefer straight out communication.

"Alinta's Blog" says everything really. A blog. By me. What else is there to say?

*Shrugs*. Probably spent too long working with plain English.

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